THE MAN WHO HUNTED HIMSELF

by Lex Lander

  We sat down on the bench and stayed there for a quite a while, growing cold, enjoying the close contact, just listening to each other breathe, imagining our hearts beating in time.

  Agreeable though it was, it had to come to an end. Plans to make, things to do. Above all, reality to face – the reality of the Tosis and their mob, bent on revenge.

  I kicked off by broaching the subject that was uppermost in Maura’s thoughts.

  ‘Let’s talk about Belinda and how I can help. I’ll do whatever it takes to get her back for you.’ Her face lit up as if it had been caught in a sunbeam. I held up a cautionary hand. ‘Don’t get too excited, love. I don’t have a clue how to go about it. The situation’s complicated by the police surveillance and my running feud with the Tosi mob. Potentially the Heiders too. If they get to know I killed Jeff, they’ll come gunning for me.’

  She trapped her bottom lip in her incisors as I reeled off the list of obstacles.

  ‘It’ll take careful preparation,’ I went on. ‘Let me at least get the Tosis off my back and the police off yours. Then I can focus on dealing with the Heiders and restoring Lindy to her mother.’

  She squeezed my hand. ‘Oh, Drew, if only you can.’

  Learning how she felt about me had given me a lot to absorb. It risked being a serious distraction from what threatened to be the biggest challenge I had ever confronted.

  ‘Come to the house tomorrow night?’ she said. ‘I’d say tonight, but I’ll be at the casino till late.’

  ‘I’ll try and hold out.’

  ‘Me too.’

  A few more kisses and platitudes later, we parted company. She to return to running the Pieces of Eight, I to determine my tactics for neutralizing threat number one – Silvano Tosi.

  It was brought home to me sooner than expected that I was entering a minefield. The door of the Beamer had just unlocked itself at my approach when another car drew in behind me. My instinctive reaction that it must be the police was scrambled when I glanced over my shoulder and saw a red Ferrari.

  The driver was Nick Heider, always popping up in unexpected places. He killed the engine and came over. In his three-piece suit with watch chain accessory, he exuded corporate lawyerism. He was wearing Rayban sunglasses too, to add a touch of mean to the hotshot dude image.

  ‘Hi, James.’

  ‘Hi. You certainly do get around. We must stop meeting like this.’

  He grinned lopsidedly. ‘Yeah, it’s a small town. Fact is, we just heard you went to Mono Lake with Maura yesterday …’

  ‘And Daddy sent you to give me a talking to.’

  The expression went from sunny to cloudy.

  ‘Listen, Freeman ...’

  Now I was “Freeman”. Next thing it would be “punk”. After that, it was anybody’s guess.

  ‘No, Nick, you listen. It’s high time you quit dogging Maura’s footsteps like a jealous lover.’ He coloured up so fast it made me wonder if I had touched a nerve. ‘She’s all grown up, and her husband’s been dead for two years. Why don’t you stay off her back?’

  ‘She tell you the reason she had to go all that way to see her daughter?’

  ‘She said she lost custody of her a year ago because of her gambling connections.’

  It was a credible lie, unless Maura had told him the truth.

  He let out a long breath. ‘Yes, that’s right. The girl lives with Carl and Justine now, as you discovered, I guess.’

  ‘Fine. That all?’

  A van pulled in next to the Ferrari. Nick fell quiet as a burly guy in coveralls got out and set off across the parking lot.

  I assumed we were done and made to enter my car. Nick grabbed my sleeve.

  ‘Wait a minute, I haven’t finished talking to you yet.’ He continued clutching my sleeve; I prised his fingers away. ‘We don’t want you hanging around Maura. That plain enough for you?’

  ‘Or else?’

  He squared up to me. He was much the same height, and his shoulders were broad. The slight paunch under his vest told me he wasn’t as fit as he might have been.

  ‘We might have to convince you it’s not profitable.’

  I looked him in the eye. ‘You’re a well-built guy, Nick, and you’re younger than me. But you’re out of condition. I could put you on the ground before you could open your mouth and shout “help”. And then, if I was really pissed at you, I could kill you dead with my thumb and index finger. Do you want me to demonstrate?’

  He seethed noisily, like a whistling kettle on the boil.

  ‘Okay, Mister Tough Guy. Now we know where we stand with you.’

  ‘And vice-versa, messenger boy. Make sure you tell Daddy what I said, preferably verbatim.’

  Being a lawyer, he would know what verbatim meant.

  SEVENTEEN

  It was around six on Sunday evening when I rang the bell of Maura’s front door, having taken the usual precaution of leaving the car about a mile away. Silvano Tosi was sure to be out there somewhere, waiting to pounce, so I had gone armed. The consequences of falling foul of the police with an unlicenced gun were likely to be less unpleasant than having to fend off Silvano and company without one. The bunch of red and yellow roses I carried would not have been much of a deterrent.

  It was only my second sighting of Maura suited up to kill. She was wearing a full length dress, Bordeaux red with subtle highlights that made it shimmer with every movement. It was modestly cut, only the merest shadow of cleavage and no thigh-high slashes. A necklace of rubies that matched the dress drooped from her slender neck. Her hair was down, caressing her shoulders. All of this bolstered my impression of Maura as a class act through and through.

  She came to me as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and my arms were ready to receive her. Our kiss was memorable; her body beneath the fine material of her dress felt firm yet supple.

  We were still on the doorstep. She tugged me in and I pushed the door shut with my foot.

  ‘You look absolutely stunning,’ I said, and handed over the roses.

  She accepted them, and performed a mock curtsey.

  ‘Thank you, kind sir. They’re lovely.’

  By comparison, I felt like a hick in my sport coat and chinos. She headed for the kitchen to put the flowers in water. Unidentifiable but mouth-watering cooking smells welcomed me as I tagged along behind her.

  While arranging the flowers in a green vase she caught me watching her. She made a kissing motion with her lips, which I reciprocated. We had come quite a distance in the space of a day.

  ‘What are we having?’ I asked.

  ‘Fish and chips,’ she said straight-faced, then burst out laughing at my reaction.

  ‘Nothing wrong with fish and chips.’

  ‘Some other night maybe. For this special night you’re getting red snapper and not a chip in sight.’

  Ozzie joined the party with a mew of greeting, rubbed against my legs, and made a beeline for his food and drink dish. Grizzly as ever seemed to be keeping a low profile.

  Maura tied on an apron and busied herself preparing a selection of vegetables on the island counter, spurning all offers of assistance.

  ‘I can cook, you know,’ I assured her, in case she thought of me as a stereotypical male, hopeless in the kitchen.

  ‘You’ll get plenty of chances to prove it,’ was her retort. “Plenty” sounded like she expected our relationship to last. As at today, I had no definite views on what the future might hold for us as a team. It was too early to speculate. I was comfortable with letting it ride and develop at its own momentum, and that was as far as it went.

  Uncomfortably conscious of the Ruger in the small of my back, I meandered off into the sitting room and shoved it behind a seat cushion on a couch. Handy enough if needed. I inspected a few of the paintings. They were original, but the artists’ signatures were unknown to me. Local, maybe.

  ‘Help yourself to drinks,’ Maura called.

  ‘I’m good, thanks.’ There had been a period
in my life when alcohol played an important role. It was long dead, thankfully. Now I took as much pleasure in declining a drink as in drink itself.

  ‘If you’re at a loose end you can come and open this bottle.’

  I answered her summons, and removed the cork from a bottle of St Joseph red from the Domaine Coursoudon vineyard, 2012 vintage. Sniffing the cork told me it was fruity and generous, and just about ready.

  Maura plonked a decanter down beside the bottle. I went through the rites, though in my view the aromatic benefits of decanting are hardly worth the trouble.

  It was after seven when we sat down at an oval table in the dining room, barely lit by a pair of thin spiral candles. The hors d’oeuvres, consisted of a dish of little cheese pastries so light they dissolved in the mouth, decorated with baby tomatoes. Maura accepted my compliments with a touch of shyness.

  ‘Cooking’s not really my strong point.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe you. But even if it’s true you have more than enough other strong points to compensate.’

  She giggled. ‘If you’re going to keep throwing out compliments like that you’re going to make me very vain.’

  I poured the wine, and we clinked glasses.

  ‘Is it too soon to drink to us?’ she said.

  ‘Not at all. It’s only a toast, not a commitment.’

  My choice of words could have been more tactful. A commitment may have been precisely what Maura was expecting.

  Our second toast was to Belinda’s safe return.

  ‘And that is a commitment,’ I said.

  Over the starters and the mains, we began the process of mutual discovery, and the evening raced by. When the clock chimed ten and we hadn’t stopped talking once, I took this as a favourable sign.

  ‘Are you ready for dessert?’ she enquired, rising from her seat and gathering up the used plates and cutlery.

  ‘If it’s as good as the rest, bring it on. Here, let me help ...’

  From another part of the house came a cracking noise, akin to wood splintering.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Maura yelped, dumping the plates back on the table with a clatter. ‘It sounded as if it came from my bedroom.’

  I stood up and with her leading we started out for the master bedroom. More noises, glass breaking, a curse. Belatedly I remembered the Ruger stuffed in the cushions. As one we paused, hesitating. Voices and the thud of feet landing on carpet sent me backpedalling to the couch and my hidden gun, with Maura in close pursuit. Her own bedside gun was out of reach, in the room where the break-in had occurred.

  ‘Stop right there, Freeman!’ I was several feet short of my objective when the command pulled me up. It was almost certainly backed by a weapon so I didn’t push my luck.

  The room suddenly seemed crowded. Four guys, Silvano Tosi at their head, equipped for battle with three pump action shotguns between them. The biggest of the band, who was the shape and size of a Sumo wrestler, had already wrapped a fat arm around Maura. Her flailing fists were as effective against him as ping pong balls on armour plate.

  ‘Ain’t this our lucky night,’ Silvano crowed. ‘We get two for the price of one.’

  ‘This is the bitch that shot Cesare.’ This from the whippet-like guy who had participated in Cesare’s hijack attempt.

  ‘No kidding. Maybe we can have a bit of fun before we put her to sleep.’

  Maura gave up pummelling Sumo.

  ‘Who are these men, Drew?’

  Before I could answer Silvano wisecracked, ‘We’re selling encyclopaedias, whaddaya think?’

  Guffaws from the other three.

  The Whippet and the fourth member of the gang, another hefty baboon, were covering me with their shotguns. I had managed to retreat until the calves of my legs were almost touching the couch.

  ‘Frisk him, Sergio,’ Silvano rapped. The second baboon advanced on me. His frisking was rudimentary. It made no difference though, because I wasn’t carrying.

  Silvano handed his shotgun to the Whippet, and drew a sticker with a blade not much wider than a knitting needle from a sheath at his belt. Maura gave a small scream when she saw it. I didn’t feel so hot myself.

  ‘When we are avenging the death of a family member we have a tradition of killing by gutting.’ Silvio bared his teeth. ‘You will die a slow and agonizing death.’

  An anguished ‘No!’ from Maura didn’t even make his eyelids flicker. He was totally focused on me and my demise.

  He advanced on me, the knife extended, blade horizontal. My calves were now hard up against the couch.

  ‘Drew!’ Maura’s despairing wail wasn’t going to sway Silvano.

  ‘First, the note.’ He snapped his fingers at me.

  ‘It’s at the hotel,’ I said, hoping to delay my quietus.

  His brow darkened. ‘If you’re lying, we’ll find out soon enough. If you’re telling the truth, we’ll get it from your room.’

  ‘It’s in my room safe.’

  Silvano sniggered. ‘You hear that, guys. It’s in his room safe.’ The guys echoed his snigger. ‘When is a safe not safe? When it’s in a hotel room.’

  He didn’t elaborate. In any case, with the point of the knife less than a foot from my stomach, I had other matters on my mind. Maura was still struggling to get free but making no headway. Her tears were of frustration, with maybe a few allocated to my probable fate.

  It was only to be expected that, as he jabbed the knife at me I would flop onto the couch in a state of funk. While the flopping was an act, the funk was real enough.

  ‘Stand up, punk!’ Silvano snarled, and the baboon called Sergio moved in to haul me back on my feet.

  No guns were pointing at me. I had positioned the Ruger for quick withdrawal, with the grip at the top. It slid out smoothly and, being already cocked with the safety off, was ready for action.

  I gave Sergio the first bullet: to the midriff. A .45 slug will generally fell a man no matter where it enters the body. He was no exception. It sent him sprawling, yelling in pain as he went, dragging a yelping Maura and the Sumo guy down with him. Silvano reached inside his windbreaker, presumably for a handgun in a shoulder holster, and simultaneously lunged at me with the knife. I rolled off the couch, the knife point missing me by the thickness of my sport coat. Twisting as I fell, I pumped two rounds into him. Standing one minute, crashing to the floor the next, that was Silvano. By now, the Whippet was bringing his shotgun into play. I was ahead of him by a split second, and aiming to miss, fired past him. It was enough to make him think again.

  ‘Don’t!’ he yelled, flinging the shotgun across the room and raising his arms in classic surrender mode.

  Even if he didn’t deserve it, I preferred sparing him to shooting him. The same went for Sumo, who was disengaging his elephantine bulk from Sergio and Maura, though she was still alive whereas Sergio was either dead or dying.

  ‘You okay, love?’ I barked at her; she was on her knees, hair in disarray, that exquisite dress torn under the armpit. So far, her association with me was not working out well.

  ‘Yes ... I think so.’

  Back on her feet, she aimed a kick at the supine Sumo’s oversized gut. She had plenty of fire left in her. He grunted but lay still and took it.

  We had two corpses on our hands. Maura was finding out the hard way what it meant to be hooked up with a hit man.

  ‘You – sit down,’ I told the Whippet, whose hands were striving to touch the ceiling. ‘And you –’ to Sumo ‘– stay down.’

  ‘Silvano has a gun in a shoulder holster,’ I told Maura. ‘Get it and cover them.’

  ‘Okay, Drew.’ She was bearing up well before this second dose of trauma in three days. She shot me a weak smile, so I guessed I wasn’t entirely out of favour. Silvano was leaking blood onto the wooden floor. She extracted an automatic from inside his windbreaker, made sure the slide was racked.

  My mind was as busy as a beehive, trying to figure out the next step: call the police was the obvious course. But
coming after the fracas by the roadside two days ago, I was not optimistic about getting off so lightly. Especially as there were two corpses, and they were both my doing, not Maura’s. On top of that, the Ruger was an illegal firearm.

  ‘Now listen to me, you shitbags,’ I said, coming to a decision. ‘Here are your choices: either I call the law and you two spend tonight and many more nights in the pen, or you keep schtum and take the stiffs back to Reno with you.’

  Their ugly faces brightened.

  ‘We’ll do like you say, boss,’ the Whippet panted. Sumo jiggled his head eagerly in agreement. Even guys built like small mountains are afraid of the law.

  ‘Don’t you think we should phone the police?’ Maura intervened.

  I had been afraid she would want to do the right thing, the legal thing.

  ‘I’ll explain later. For now, just trust me.’

  ‘I will,’ she said. ‘I will trust you.’

  I reached across and touched her arm in a show of empathy.

  Then I ordered the two goons to carry Silvano and Sergio out to their car.

  ‘It’s parked in the street,’ the Whippet whined. ‘We couldn’t get in because of the gate.’

  None of us wanted witnesses to removal of the bodies. The solution was to move the car into the empty half of Maura’s double garage. While I kept the Whippet and Sumo covered, she relieved Sergio’s corpse of the keys and went outside.

  In less than five minutes, she was back.

  ‘It’s in. Nobody saw me as far as I could tell.’

  ‘Well done, honey.’

  My praise seemed to please her. She was standing up to the whole mess a lot better than I expected. That steel core was functioning well.

  With both of us covering them, the Whippet and Sumo transferred their late associates from Maura’s floor to their car, a Lincoln MCX with a trunk big enough to take a football team of corpses.

  ‘You know how to make bodies disappear, right?’ I said to them as they climbed into the front seat.

  The Whippet was getting his confidence back now that he was sure he wouldn’t be arrested.

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Nobody will find them.’